It was a night like any other. Detective Dick Osborne sat behind his solid timber desk, closing files and getting ready to go home for the evening, or maybe to a bar, since there was nothing at home for him anyway, and he hated drinking alone.
There was a knock at the door and he looked up to see her standing there, all legs and breasts. Her curly blond hair hung in ringlets about her shoulders and her cold blue eyes warned him she was a dangerous woman. Her red leather skirt covered little more than her panties, though he had his doubts as to whether or not she was wearing any. The back latex tank top she had squeezed her more then ample breasts in to, was stretched to capacity, the fabric threatening to burst under the incredible strain.
The way she moved reminded him of a Persian cat his mother had owned when he was a child, her perfectly manicured red claws sliding down the length of her slender thighs as she moved closer to his desk. Leaning against the polished timber, her heaving cleavage dipping lower before his inquisitive eyes, she spoke in a pleading, exasperated voice.
"Oh Detective Osborne, I'm in terrible trouble, can you help me? I'm more than willing to pay you anything you ask. And I do mean anything."
He could tell this woman was desperately in need of his assistance, but with what, he wondered. She showed all the finesse of a million-dollar call girl, sleek and smooth, her perfume intoxicating. Yep, she was his kind of dame all right and he was willing to assist her with more than just her inquiry. Taking his notebook from the pocket of his tweed jacket, he reached for a pencil, the growing bulge in the front of his pants brushing hard against the edge of his desk. Leaning back in the chair, propping his feet up on the desk, he gave her a serious look.
"Ok Ma'am, just give me the facts." He held his pencil at the ready, not wanting to miss a single detail of her account. Propping her tight little ass on the edge of his desk, he could see the inside of her thigh. Either she has the furriest bush he had ever seen or she was hiding one very lucky kitty up her skirt. The thought of how he could make that kitty purr made him press a little hard on his pencil, snapping the lead and leaving a dark imprint on the paper. She gave him a wicked smile, knowing full well the affect she was having on him.
"What's the matter detective? No lead in your pencil?" She reached to the pencil holder and retrieved another, sharpened tool, handing it too him, running the tip of her well-formed tongue over her perfect white teeth.
He raised an eyebrow at her. "I have more than enough lead to suite my purposes, but it never hurts to keep your pencil sharpened. Now Ma'am, the facts?" She bit her bottom lip timidly, looking at him through puppy dog eyes.
"It's a terrible mess Mr. Osborne, I'm certain my lover is cheating on me. I think he's sleeping with his wife. He was always a terrible lover, blowing his load in no time at all, but lately, he's been lasting for hours, pushing and thrusting into me until I climax over and over again. You see, he can only do that on his second load, so he must be fucking that shameless slut before he comes to me. And then yesterday, he smelled of perfume, more expensive than the one he buys me, so he's obviously spending money on her well. He's such a cad. I want pictures Detective Osborne. Pictures, videotape, everything. I want to know if he really is fucking his bitch."
Osborne gave her a confused look. After all, it was hardly a crime for a man to fuck his wife and buy her perfume. A fact he pointed out to the woman.
"Please, call me Kitty, Kitty DeLuth." Her voice was soft and sultry, her red fingernails tracing lines up and down the inside of her thigh. "You see Mr. Osborne, he said that he loved me, and as soon as she died, he would marry me and keep in the manner I deserve. He swore I was the only one he would ever fuck, and if he's lying to me about that, he could be lying about everything. I have to know if he's true to me, I just have to." She pulled a silk hanky from her purse and dabbed the corners of her eyes, but Osborne was no fool, he doubted this feline ever shed a tear in her life.
Tapping his pencil on the edge of his note pad, he considered the possibilities of taking this case, and the repercussions.
"I will need to know the name of your lover before I can give you an answer Miss Kitty, though I doubt any man that would chose a house wife over a dame like you could be much of a man." Her sexy smile and cruel eyes told him she was thinking the same thing. Opening the bottom draw of his desk, he produced a bottle of cheap bourbon and two glasses, filling both glasses and handing her one. She threw her drink back in one shot and held the glass out for another.
"His name is Witherspoon, Drake Witherspoon." Osborne had just taken his first mouthful of the cheap liquor when she named the quarry. Choking, he coughed, spluttering and spraying the delectable Miss DeLuth with a mouthful of bourbon. She seemed unperturbed by the dousing, using her hanky to blot away the droplets of liquor that ran down into the bottomless depths of her cleavage. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he gave her a flat look.